Quotes About Streets

Chapter 1 In the bitter cold of a late December night, the gargoyle's sharp gaze scanned restlessly over the deserted streets of Dublin. Not far below, the clock in the tower of St. Patrick's Cathedral began to strike midnight. The sound of the bell reverberated on a breeze brittle with the promise of snow, skittering among the city's chimneys and across frost-kissed slate roofs. Very soon, the rhythm was picked up by other clocks elsewhere in the sleeping city.

Off the main drag were streets that wound into the hills of Silverlake and the city officials who lived there and people who worked in the real Hollywood as prop builders, camera operators and the lowest of the low, the writers.

A New York times reporter wrote about David Wilkerson,"He was the model of absolute simplicity, directness and non-sophistication. He sought out gang members, drug addicts and alcoholics with no other weapon than the Bible. He just went out on the streets, mixed with the kids and reasoned with them face to face, often quoting the Bible, and it worked.

There open up, deep inside a city, reflected streets, streets which are double, make-believe streets. One's imagination, bewitched and misled, creates illusory maps of the apparently familiar districts, maps in which the streets have their proper places and usual names but are provided with new and fictitious configurations by the inexhaustible inventiveness of the night.

Tout grand port maritime offre, aux alentours de ses quais, le spectacle d'étrangers des plus bizarres et des plus hétéroclites. Même dans Broadway et Chesnut Streets, il

he's sold all on 'em but one, and that one he's trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow's Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin' human heads about the streets when folks is goin' to churches.

Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish—a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow—to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested . . . Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.

The streets of every city are thronged with men who would pay all the money they could get their hands on to be transformed - even for a day - into hairy, hard-fisted brutes who walk over cops, extort free drinks from terrified bartenders and then thunder out of town on big motorcycles after raping the banker's daughter.

Playing in London in 1979 was exciting: it was at the start of new wave, the transition period after punk, and there were a lot of radical, fashionable young people on the streets and in the venues.

Improving our transportation infrastructure reduces car trips, helps us reach our carbon emission reduction goals, is healthier for our residents, and saves lives. Too often in the past we have been slow to make these common sense improvements to our streets.

A little before noon I sent orders to all my batteries to open fire through the streets or at any points where the troops were seen about the city, as a diversion in favor of Jackson.

I don't think my music really provokes that kind of energy that makes people want to grab AKs and rally through the streets. I don't think my music is gangsta in that sense.

Women on the streets want money when we meet. I take them for a little ride, chop, chop, chop.

If people want safer streets, they want police supported, then they should vote for Donald Trump because that's what he'll do.

I'm going to give the people what they want. Sensation, horror, shock. Send them out in the streets to tell their friends how wonderful it is to be scared to death.

I will not live in a city where dead bodies lie abandoned in the streets, and you will not tell the world I do.

The narrow streets and modest plazas were empty of life and slick with rain, while above them the soaring ateliers brooded, their dark windows as blank as weary eyes.

Against the urgency of people dying in the streets, what in God's name is the point of cultural studies?...At that point, I think anybody who is into cultural studies seriously as an intellectual practice, must feel, on their pulse, its ephemerality, its insubstantiality, how little it registers, how little we've been able to change anything or get anybody to do anything. If you don't feel that as one tension in the work that you are doing, theory has let you off the hook.

Moscow," he said, "was built to make people feel small against the magnificence of the revolution. The streets are eight lanes wide, the statues are five stories high, the buildings are as big as mountains. But this—look at it, Shemenkov

I'm in prison. But my heart and mind is free. Gangsta haters on the streets are doing more time than me. They need 30 police escorts with them every time they walk down the street.

I love walking along Leith's waterfront and wandering around some of New Town's beautiful streets and squares, with their gorgeous Georgian architecture.

With your absence I have realised that hoe the once, warm comforting streets have suddenly turned to become so cold and dark

Rhythms. You can almost feel them on suburban streets, divine the hour of the day without consulting a clock from the sounds heard in the cool, leafy neighborhoods.

Let us go out in the fog, John, let us roll up our raincoat collars and go on the streets where men are sneering at the kings.